


Summer's Song

by Narya_Flame



Series: Summerland [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Crossover of 'verses, Crossover of ‘The Ways of Paradox’ and ‘Dark Prince ‘verse, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Modern Era, Post-Canon, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: After the events ofSummerland,Claire James flees to Venice, looking for answers - and for her friend, Mark Lowry, whose true name she now knows to be Maglor.Together they must unravel the mystery left by Vanimórë.  Help awaits them in unexpected places, but shadows are stirring outside the city, and even those closest to them keep secrets...A gift fic for Spiced Wine, and a sequel to her wonderfulSummerland, which is a crossover between her 'verse and mine.   Familiarity with that story probably required.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [~ Summerland ~](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795351) by [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine). 



_St Austell, Cornwall  
18 months prior to the events of 'Summerland'..._

The shop was called The Bringer of Gifts. It was one of those tucked-away places that looked innocuous from the outside – shabby, even. A leaning town-house of bare, cool stone and elegant windows, its interior shadowed and dark. Many eyes slid right over it; it wore its age gracefully and with little fanfare. But for the few who knew what they were looking for, the place was an invaluable source of rare treasures, available at the right price to a certain kind of customer.

Robert Orson Downes was, he flattered himself, that kind of customer.

He had heard the name of Arthur May on the social grapevine, usually spoken in reverent whispers and accompanied by sage nods. When one sought a particular something that could not be found in the display cases of Harrods or in the pages of a Sotheby’s catalogue, one telephoned Mr. May. If he didn’t have a required item in stock, he possessed a strange knack of being able to acquire it swiftly, and produce it ready for inspection at his store in St Austell. Why St Austell, his customers had never quite been able to fathom, although it mattered little in this age of instant communication across continents and oceans. Perhaps Mr. May simply preferred being located away from the seething mass of London – and yet the man himself was rarely at the shop. It was rumoured that the antiques business was only a hobby-horse, that his true interests lay elsewhere. At any rate, he was an elusive character.

Robert didn’t care much who Arthur May was, or what his real business interests were. There was something very specific that he was anxious to acquire, and if Mr. May could assist him in that objective, then he was welcome to all the shade and mystery that the world’s dark underbelly could give him.

The shop door opened inwards with a sinister tinkle. Sinister? Robert straightened his shoulders. Fanciful nonsense, as his grandfather might have said. There was nothing sinister about the place. The shop was beautifully presented and gently lit to display its treasures to their greatest advantage – hand-carved, heirloom furniture; couture gowns from the twenties and earlier, all in immaculate condition; clocks; furs; baskets of lace and trinkets; unasssuming cabinets filled with outrageous jewellery that should, by all reasonable expectations, be costume (but Robert knew that it was not). And these were merely the stock items. Robert knew from his peers who had dealt with Mr. May before that there was plenty the mysterious man kept out of sight, available only to those who demonstrated the necessary taste – and, of course, capital.

“May I help you?”

The voice rolled out of the shadows like silk.

“Er. Yes.” Robert cleared his throat and added, “Please.” Where was the speaker? The cabinets, surely, were not large enough to lurk behind. He glanced over his shoulder, and a chill threaded down his spine.

“Mr. Arthur May, Esquire, dealer and proprietor, at your service.”

Robert jumped. The man had appeared in front of him as though assembled from mist. “Er. Robert. Robert Orson Downes.” He held out his hand; the answering grip was firm and cool.

Arthur May was slender and tall, with a sheet of white-blonde hair drawn back in a ponytail. He wore a white shirt with rolled sleeves and slim-cut black trousers. Both were exquisitely tailored. Round, dark glasses covered his eyes, and Robert frowned – was he blind? Not that it mattered, he supposed, although how he was able to identify the treasures he travelled the world seeking, if he couldn't even see...

“Well, Mr. Orson Downes, how may I assist you?”

Robert realised he was still gripping Mr. May's hand. “I'm looking for something.”

An artful smile. “Most people are. Not all of them find their way to me.”

“I'm looking for a ring.”

One eyebrow – astonishingly dark for one so fair – curved into a querying arch. “Are you indeed?”

The words brushed against something in Robert's mind. Something about that phrase...a flash of gold...a river...

Arthur May folded his arms, watching, smiling.

“Yes,” Robert replied eventually. He reached into the leather document wallet he carried, and pulled out a yellowing, tattered auction catalogue, from the sale of a great country house more than half a century ago. Tight fingers of resentment squeezed in his belly at the sketch of the building on the front, domed and winged, now long blasted into dust. He turned to a page in the middle, and handed the catalogue to Mr. May. “This ring, to be precise.”

He could see, then, Robert thought, as Mr. May took the book and read the indicated line.

“The information here is hardly sufficient to trace the item.” The silken voice was bored and cold.

“I have a picture.”

“Show me.”

He obeyed without thought, reaching into the document folder again to draw out the precious sketch of his great-great-grandmother, who had liked to wear the item in question on a chain around her neck. It was a small rendering, but the artist – whoever it had been, likely some admirer, or possibly a cousin or a sibling – had captured enough of the ring's detail to make it identifiable. Twin serpents with jewels for eyes, the one upholding and the other devouring an ornate crown.

Both of Arthur May's eyebrows lifted. “Oh, yes. Yes, I do see.” He stared at Robert from behind his dark glasses. “A family heirloom, I take it?”

“Yes. My great-great-great-grandfather – the ninth Earl – brought it back from his grand tour, but it was listed for sale in error when the house and its contents were auctioned after World War Two.”

“Do have any idea who acquired it?”

“Auction house records name a painter – a Morris Canvey.”

“Morris Canvey.” Mr. May held each syllable and vowel in his mouth as though tasting the name, seeking its meaning and truth. “And what do we know of him?”

“Not much,” Robert shrugged. “No famous works, although there's a bit of a romantic story attached to him. A friend of mine in the Civil Service did some digging; turns out he was a spy in the Second World War. Behind enemy lines for years, apparently. Did something dreadful to his hand; it was a wonder he could still paint.”

A chandelier turned in a draught, reflecting the lamplight. Arthur May's glasses gleamed.

“But he disappears in 1955. The trail goes completely cold.” 

Mr. May stroked a long, graceful finger over the sketch of the ring. “Come with me.”

Robert followed him through the shops to an old-fashioned writing desk at the back, itself no doubt a priceless antique. Mr. May unlocked it, caressing the key like a lost lover, then sat down and pulled out a carved ebony box filled with paperwork. “I will keep these.” Lightly, he touched the catalogue and the sketch. “You understand, of course, that such a particular item may take time to acquire.”

“I'm not in a hurry. But it should have been mine, and I want it back.” He watched as Mr. May dipped a fountain pen in a bottle of blank ink. “You haven't asked if I can pay.”

“I don't need to.” It must have been the light – surely it was the light – but when he looked up his eyes seemed to glitter behind the glasses, fragments of green and violet and silver and pink, flickering like jewels sunk into a darkening pool. “Mr. Orson Downes, I feel this may prove to be a very valuable relationship.”

Robert swallowed, and for the first time he wondered whether perhaps he ought to care who Arthur May was after all.


	2. Signor Sunshine

_Venice  
July 2012_

Light glittered on the lagoon like diamonds strewn across turquoise silk. The Campanile yawned skywards over the Piazza San Marco, rich red against deep, liquid blue. The regal dome of the Basilica Santa Maria smiled benevolently across the mouth of the Grand Canal, its pale curves bathed in the morning sun. The scene had a perfect, unreal familiarity. If Claire focussed, and kept her eyes lifted upwards, she could almost believe she was in the Venice of old – the opulent palazzos, the great masked balls that went on until dawn and beyond, air so warm and thick you could taste it... 

She wrinkled her nose. That, at least, she didn't have to imagine. La Serenissima was filled with the sulphurous smell of stagnant water and decomposing debris – and the sharp-edged burn of fumes. As she climbed off the vaporetto she threw a disparaging glance at the great cruise ship hulking towards Giudecca, ready to disgorge its contents into the city's historic centre. Already gaggles of meandering tourists drifted across the square, mouths agape, phones and cameras aloft. St. Mark's Basilica was covered in scaffolding, but nobody seemed to mind. 

_Typical_ , Claire thought with a wry smile. _My first time in Venice and you can barely see its most famous landmark._ Still, at least the netting over the stacked scaffold was printed with the image of the stonework it concealed. Back in Britain, repairs on an old monument meant garish sheets of green and red tape all over it for months on end. She thought of the cathedral in St Andrews,and how they used to cover it with blue plastic mesh when they were doing structural work. Tugging her suitcase, she crossed the shadow of the enormous ship, and found herself feverishly glad that St Andrews was too small and cold to tempt such monstrosities into its waters.

She hauled her case out of the way of a group of sightseers in floppy cotton hats, sensible shoes and fanny-packs, squashing her irritation by reminding herself that she was a tourist too – although her year in St Andrews had taught her enough to know that it was bad form to drag wheeled bags along ancient, uneven streets.

Fifteen minutes later, though, she was regretting being so considerate. She'd packed light – she'd had to, since she'd had only the camping gear she'd taken to Devon to choose from – and flown with one of the budget airlines, carry-on baggage only, paid for with her own money. (She couldn't bring herself to use the credit cards given to her by the man calling himself Vanimórë.) Even so, lugging her case through the hot and narrow streets was exhausting, and she had barely slept in three days. Since leaving Summerland she had struggled to settle at night. Her time there had the quality of a nightmare and a dream, although the cuts on her cheek – now clotted and scabbed – and the wad of envelopes stowed carefully in her luggage told her that it had been very real indeed. 

And the – the paperweight. 

(She wasn't ready to use its true name, even in her mind.)

But it was more than the memory of that night, the trauma, the knowledge of what she’d done. Whenever she tried to sleep, little things scratched at the edge of her awareness, nettling, needling, things that in St Andrews she would have slept straight through. The sweep and growl of a car engine. A shift in the shadows. A creak as the building cooled down. And a sense of being watched, of being searched for. Hunted. By...

No. No, it was paranoia. _He_ couldn’t know where she was, or he would have her already.

Still, she hadn't needed Nanny's urgings to leave Devon – leave England – as quickly as possible. Rosie, wise soul, had asked no questions and had even packed their things by the time Claire was back at the caravan. She had nodded at Claire's feeble excuse that the cuts on her cheek came from rocks, courtesy of her unplanned dip in the ocean, though Claire doubted her friend believed it for a moment. She could almost hear Rosie's mental voice now, in the middle of the Strada Nuova - “rocks, my arse.”

She had driven Rosie home, hugged her tightly, promised to call in a few days, hoped she wasn't lying. Unable to go home and explain to her parents – or even concoct some half-hearted fib – she had checked into a Travelodge, booked the first available flight to Venice, left the Bilberry at the airport and flown out here. 

The smell of deep fried seafood stole through the streets to greet her. The air was heavy and yellow with sunshine, and it glowed against wild-coloured masks displayed on stalls and in shop windows. As she drew nearer to Cannaregio the crowds of tourists thinned, replaced by groups of students and locals chattering away in a lilting dialect that curled and danced, lighter and more balanced than the standard Italian she'd learned in school. They sat outside _osterias_ and _bacari_ , glasses of wine in hand, nibbling plates of _cichetti_. She could tell she'd strayed off the sightseeing trail; one man was picking at what looked very much like a pile of pickled ligaments. She swallowed and heaved her suitcase onward over the footbridge.

She found her apartment easily enough – down a side street, behind the Mori d'Oriente. Lines of laundry were strung from balcony to balcony overhead, and faded posters advertised cheap beer and pasta. 

The interior was blessedly cool, and she sighed as the throbbing in her temples eased. She wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't caught something after wandering into the sea. Bright lights gave her a headache; she had spells of feeling hot and feverish, and her limbs ached after even a normal brisk walk. The lack of sleep wouldn't be helping – but she wondered now whether the strange hyper-sensitivity that plagued her at night might not be another symptom. Perhaps she should go to a chemist, or even the hospital? 

Not now; not yet. She'd be alright after a rest – and first she needed answers of a different kind.

She dumped her suitcase and carefully removed all the envelopes that Nanny had given her, stashing them in her leather backpack and zipping it firmly closed. She had wrapped the paperweight gingerly in a large cotton scarf, unsure whether she should touch it again.

_It called to you._

Or had it simply known that she was its way back to its true owner?

Her throat dried and closed as she thought of him. Nerves curled in a hot, fractious clump in her gut. She was here – now what? That morning in the cove at Summerland she had _known_ , known with utter certainty that she would find him here. She had stood in the sea up to her ankles, as she had so often done by the pier at East Sands, replaying her strange conversation with Nanny.

"I don’t know where to start,” she had objected as Nanny repeatedly insisted that his Lordship needed her to find “their mutual friend.”

“Well, last time you found him by the sea, didn’t you?” the older woman replied, ladling hot porridge into a bowl for her.

“That doesn’t exactly narrow things down.”

For a moment a much younger – or older? – woman seemed to laugh at her from behind Nanny’s eyes. “I often find that a nice brisk walk helps to set the mind on the right track.”

So she had followed her feet down to the cove, where Vanimórë had pulled her from the water the night before, and stood waiting.

_Why couldn't you have just told me where to go? You seemed to know everything else._

But the only response came from the ocean breeze, which brushed her hair aside like an affectionate caress.

And so she had entered the water, and stood, and listened. For a while there was nothing, nothing but the sough and sigh of the sea and the crying of the gulls, and her feet growing numb with the cold. She was about to give up, ready to step out of the sea and trudge back to the house, when she felt it, the same aching tug under her ribcage that she felt when Mark – Maglor – played or sang. Half-startled, she closed her eyes and relaxed into it in the same way she sank into the stories his songs told, let it lead her along through its whispering currents – and then suddenly, sharply, she _felt_ him. Adamant; fire; ancient grief. She yelped at the heavy, insistent _pull_ of it, like lodestones calling to one another, and it burned like lightning arcing across continents. Images crowded her mind – canals, beak-nosed masks, pleated gowns in jewel colours, modern art, open air music, rainbow glass, fat marble domes, wooden shutters, bridges, gondolas... _Venice._

Now, though, having fled halfway across Europe, she was suddenly unsure. She leaned with her back against the railings of the bed, the digging pain of the knotted metal tying her firmly to reality. She didn't know what had caused that strange connection, but she was prepared to bet it wasn't something she could replicate at will. She wondered whether it was the sea itself, being back in the same water where she had dreamed that dream that Vanimórë had claimed they'd all shared. Idly she considered going and dangling her feet in the Grand Canal.

_They'd probably corrode from all the pollutants._

She stroked the cotton that wrapped the paperweight, almost tempted – but no. She didn't know where the others were, or even if there were any left. And if _he_ had one...

Ice wedged in her throat as she swallowed.

Fine. To paraphrase Sam Gamgee, where magic failed, common sense would have to do. When Mark – Maglor – had spoken to her of Italy, it hadn't been the grand Gothic structures and heaving markets and bustling shops that had lit his face. She was unlikely to find him in the Piazza San Marco or by the Rialto Bridge; he might stand at a distance and observe a crowd, or perform to one already gathered, but he wasn't likely to seek one out and lose himself in it. She smiled as she thought of his elaborate excuses to avoid The Vic and the Union bar – and then shivered as she remembered just who it was that she had teased and laughed and joked with for all of those months, whose company had been like balm when the giddy antics of her cousin and his friends rubbed the edges of her patience raw, whose hand she had held when he'd wandered through shadow and memory into places she could not hope to follow. 

So the famous sightseeing locations were out. More probable that he'd seek solitude, or at least relative peace. It seemed so unlikely, in Venice at the height of summer; even away from the tourist zones, the city hummed and bustled with life. But outside the city, perhaps...out on the lagoon...she thought of swamps and tamarisks, weedy fields, soft tawny grass that waved in the breeze like a lion's mane. Torcello – the secluded haven of duMaurier and Hemingway and Pinter and Maugham. Would Maglor go there?

It was a start. At the very least, it was small and easy to search. She could get some lunch in one of the tavernas, and if she drew a blank, she could pause and make new plans. She added the cotton-wrapped paperweight to her backpack, shouldered it, and set off down to the docks.

The boat journey was hot and crowded. Sunlight glared off the white plastic benches, and sticky bodies jostled together for space. Claire found herself sitting out on deck, and despite layers of sunscreen her pale skin stung in the brightness and heat. She fanned herself with the little paper map she'd picked up at the airport, trying in vain to stir cooler air over her face. The headache that had threatened earlier built and spread, a sickening pressure in her skull that surged with each pitch of the boat. There was some relief at Murano as a large tour group scrambled off to visit the glass factories, but dizziness rolled through her like a wave as they turned back out onto the lagoon, and even Burano's lolly-bright houses seemed oppressive, their colours and lines too stark and harsh.

When they reached Torcello the conductor helped her off, dark eyes concerned. She thanked him in stilted Italian and did her best to assure him that no, she was fine, she was meeting a friend, she didn't need anything. The ground rocked under her feet like a swingseat – but she did feel better away from the engine noise. Away down the path to her left was a small café – barely more than a stall – selling ice cream and soft drinks. Frilled white parasols shaded old picnic benches. Light-headed, she focussed on putting one foot in front of the other until she was safely ensconced at a table clutching an ice-cold bottle of Coca-cola.

The sugary liquid took the edge off her headache. She swallowed a couple of painkillers to speed the process along, and waited in the shade for a few more minutes, wondering where to begin. It wasn't a big island; she remembered reading that there were only a couple of hotels, a few apartments and cottages, and perhaps half a dozen larger houses, most of them privately owned. If she had to go door to door she could probably do it before she lost the light.

She began with the shops and eateries on the pink-paved route along the canal, by the Ponte del Diavlo, describing Mark in slow English or halting Italian to the staff and locals gathered there, spinning a tale about visiting the island together and getting separated – although thanks to her lack of fluency, one shopkeeper took her story to be one of romantic tragedy, flung a comforting arm around her shoulder and provided her with a lace handkerchief and a bar of dark chocolate. 

Before long, an American couple in late middle age picked up on her plight; evidently knowing the island well, they gave her a list of places off the main trail that her friend might have wandered off to. They were in a cool, shadowy, red-tiled shop selling feather-light scarves and small hand-made bags; Claire had removed her sunglasses to speak to the owner, and now the American gentleman hesitated, his eyes travelling over the scratch marks on her cheek. 

He dug in his wallet and gave her his card. “If you need anything, miss, you can get me on my cell.”

“Oh – thank you.” A sharp, startled edge to her tone.

He frowned. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, I'm not,” she assured him. _Or not at the moment._ “But thank you. Really.”

She tried one of the _osterias_ on their list – an old, crooked building by an inland lagoon, the kind of place that had no menu. One simply turned up and ate whatever the proprietor had cooked that day. 

“Good afternoon.” Smiling, she approached the young man standing outside, who greeted her in Italian and moved to show her to a table. “Oh – no – er – sorry, do you speak English?”

He measured a tiny gap with his fingers. “Little bit.”

“OK.” She switched to Italian, blessing her long-ago GCSE in the subject. “I’m looking for my friend. I lost him. He is tall – dark hair – ” She indicated a length below her shoulders. “Handsome,” she added, somewhat pathetically.

The young man’s eyes sparkled mischievously, as though to say, _everyone is looking for someone like that._

“He has...” She struggled to remember the word for scar. She wasn’t sure she’d even known it in the first place. “An injury on his hand. Like...” She didn’t know the word for burn either. “Great heat.”

“Ah!” The mischievous look disappeared, and he nodded vigorously. “Signor Sunshine.”

“Sorry?” The name seemed so unlikely that it startled her back into her native tongue.

The young waiter followed her lead, continuing in English. “Beautiful gentleman. Very beautiful. Bad hand. Sometimes sad.”

“Yes!” Excitement bubbled within her, fizzing like the prosecco the diners at the next table were pouring. “Yes, that’s him!”

Grinning, he returned to Italian. “We call him Signor Sunshine because he only comes when the weather is warm. As soon as the air changes and turns cool – he is gone.”

There were many ways to describe the Venetian air today, she though, but cool was not one of them. “Is he here now?”

“He goes back to the house after lunch each day. When the wind is right, you can hear him from here.”

“Hear him?” Claire frowned.

“Yes.” The young man mimed plucking strings in the air. “He plays.”


	3. The House on Torcello

The old farmhouse sat sleepily at the canal's edge, its deep peach rendering peeling away from sand coloured stone. Green creepers climbed its sides and curled loose in nonchalant strands; dark teal shutters framed lancet arched windows; a small balcony nestled between two chimneys on the red-tiled roof. Harp music drifted from the open terrace doors, propped ajar in the heat – a piece she knew, she realised, although she'd only ever heard it played on the piano. She paused by the front door and leaned against the warm, rough wall, listening, following the trail the melody laid. It was about the sea, she thought, closing her eyes – the open ocean, and light beneath the waves, just like her dream.

“ _A Silmaril of Fëanor...you dream of the forgotten...”_

She gasped, the memory like a cold hand around her heart. Abruptly the music stopped – had he heard her? Of course he had – Elves, keener senses, she knew that, or she ought to. 

_Ring the bell, you idiot,_ she told herself, and grasped at the pull handle. A rich, throaty _shring_ of metal sounded somewhere in the depths of the house. _Otherwise he'll think you're lurking, or stalking him – well, I suppose you are, in a way – oh, how the hell are you going to explain all this?_

And now she was talking to herself. She swallowed the fit of nervous giggling that rose through her. God, it was bright – why was it so bright? The light was as sharp as a knife, and it burned like fire on the lagoon...

The sound of a key in the lock, and the green-painted door creaked open. She only half-saw him as he stepped out of shadow, dark hair tumbling, that graceful and yet predatory gait, and her eyes still stung from the water's glare, and for a moment she thought, _my God, it's him, it's Vanimórë -_ but no. She blinked, and golden light slipped over him. Harder features. Slimmer through the shoulder. Grey eyes, not violet. Mark. Maglor – but there was something else now, a blurring at the edges, an image laid over the truth like distorting glass. Sickness swooped through her again. It hurt to look at it; it was too strange, too unreal...

“Claire.” Confusion, pleasure and concern chased across his face. “What are you -?”

“We have to talk.”

The silver eyes took on the piercing, ageless quality she'd seen once or twice in St Andrews. His gaze travelled over her, and the back of her neck prickled like an egg had been cracked on her head. Blood shot to her face; she hadn't meant to be blunt or rude, but the light-headed feeling had returned, she wanted to be inside, away from the sun, and she had to _know_ , she needed to hear him say it...

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I think you're right.”

He stepped aside, letting her into the cool tiled hall. The floor was faded and cracked, but clean, and its reddish-brown stone smiled a welcome as sunlight spilled through the door. Like his house in St Andrews, it was sparsely furnished – and yet somehow this place _felt_ like him, as though he belonged to it and not the other way around. The air smelled fresh and sweet, like herbs; wooden furniture with pastel cushions and embroidered covers waited in corners, ready to fold tired wanderers into their soothing embrace; ferns and parlour palms stretched their evergreen leaves across the windows and wavered in the breeze, setting shadows dancing through the house. 

She took off her dark glasses, and Maglor hissed like a wounded cat. “Hells, Claire!” He reached out to touch the half-healed scratches on her cheek. “What happened?

She closed her eyes as his fingertips brushed the mending skin. “Please...whatever you're doing to yourself, stop.”

“Doing to...?”

“He called it a glamour. Making yourself look normal – or halfway there, anyway.” She gave a ragged laugh. “You were never really normal. Oh, God, why did I never see it, never realise...”

The warm summer air kissed her cheek as he withdrew his touch. She heard the soft intake of his breath. “You know, then.”

“Yes.”

A silence, and then a shift in the air like a whisper's echo. “Open your eyes.”

She obeyed – and covered her mouth with her hand.

He had always been beautiful – startlingly so, with his sharp, sculpted features, and those silver eyes that on occasion filled with searing fire – but now...now he looked like nothing on earth. Metaphors skittered through her mind but none took hold. The strangest thing was the quality of the air around him; it lit like mist under the stars, and yet she couldn't fix her gaze on it, as though it only existed on the very edge of reality. His eyes flamed with something wild and fey and ancient – but kind, too, and full of the same yearning sorrow that threaded his song.

She took a step back and leaned against the wall, legs shaking. “It's true.” Of course it was. Somehow, quietly, impossibly, she had known it for months.

He bowed his head.

She thought of that long, broken, dream-like night, of the sea, of the man on the rocks, wounded to his soul, of a monster's kiss, of Nanny, and the other – Vanimórë...

Sunlight poured through the windows and slid like honey over the tiles. The air tasted of rosemary and old stone. Mark – Maglor – watched her, respectful, distant, happy to let her walk them into this strange storybook world at her own pace.

She had so many questions, but when she opened her mouth, what came out was, “Do you know what the locals call you?”

A blink, cat-like, and suddenly he looked so like Vanimórë that her grip on the wall behind her slipped. “No.”

“Mr. Sunshine.” Giggles fizzed up in her, bright as the luminous sodas she used to buy in Janetta’s – and then a sudden stab of sadness and nostalgia as the enormity of the truth settled inside her, realising that perhaps they would never see it again, never go back – and Rosie, and Theo – Harrison...

She was laughing and sobbing at once. He did move then, resting his hands on her shoulders and folding her close as she leaned into him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and breathed in his familiar scent – leather, petrichor, thyme – and pressed her cheek against the now-damp fabric of his shirt.

“It’s alright. I have you. You’re alright.” Gentle fingers in her hair.

She hiccupped. “I’ve got makeup on your shirt.”

“I dare say it will wash.”

Another half-laugh that was in danger of teetering back into tears. God, she hadn’t meant to cry. She inhaled, only realising when her breath shuddered that she was shaking – but the pain in her head, at least, had eased off away from the sun. 

He placed an arm across her shoulders. Warmth blossomed where his skin touched hers, and the sick snatching in her chest faded. 

“Come upstairs.” His voice was soft. “You can wash your face – and then we'll sit down and talk properly.”

She followed him up a wooden staircase and then a spiral of wrought iron steps into what might once have been a storage loft, but was now a spectacular open plan living area. Here, too, glossy house plants lent an air of life and peace. Lilies basked in swathes of sunlight; aspidistras stretched elegantly from chipped white pots; bead-like succulents tumbled from hanging baskets by the windows. A great concert harp stood proudly in one corner, an old-fashioned record player in another. Glass-paned doors opened onto a balcony with views out over a summer-dry lawn and the ruins of a small church – and beyond that, deep ochre wetlands and another great sweep of green sea. The furniture was simple and faded, but of good quality; colourful rugs hugged gleaming dark floorboards, and framed record sleeves adorned the walls. Sibelius, Mahler, Bizet – and KISS. She almost laughed in spite of everything, remembering him telling her and Rosie about his glam rock phase. Apparently he hadn't been joking. 

“There's a bathroom just through there.” He nodded at a black-bolted wooden door.

“Thanks.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Mark – Maglor – oh, God, I don't even know – I'm so sorry -”

“It's alright. There's nothing to be sorry for.” Carefully, as though expecting her to be startled, he placed a hand on her arm. “I can't begin to guess what's happened, but I will help you now, if I can.”

Hot, scratchy tears formed in her throat again, and she swallowed. “Thank you.”

A small, regretful smile. “I have a feeling you should be blaming me rather than thanking me, but never mind. What can I bring you? Coffee? Wine? Water?”

“Just water.” She wanted to say it wasn't him, it was her, she'd been stupid, running straight into Thuringwethil's arms – but it was no use starting in the middle. “I won't be long.”

“Take all the time you need.”

When she emerged from the bathroom, a water jug and two glasses stood on a coffee table in front of a divan. Salt crackers, a bowl of green olives, a pot of whipped butter and a plate of fresh sliced figs were arranged alongside them. Mark – Maglor – had left the balcony doors propped ajar so there was a light, pleasant breeze through the room, but had drawn the blinds, dimming the sun's glare.

“I thought you might prefer the shade.” His smile was half apologetic. “And I could tell you haven't eaten.”

She closed her eyes briefly, blessing him. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “I've put you in danger. This is the least I can do.”

Almost shyly, she sat down, running her fingers over the lace throw covering the divan. “This is beautiful.”

“It was made on Burano, across the lagoon.”

The delicate web of flowers reminded her somehow of Nanny. Unsure how to begin, she picked up one of the crackers and nibbled its edge.

Maglor sat beside her – not too close, giving her space. “I thought you were in Devon.”

It was a gentle prompt, but, she realised, one she needed. “I was. We were.” She remembered the sunset, the weight and warmth of the air, the silence, broken only by birdsong and the traffic in the lane.

_The sound of her car as it swept towards the house – the smell of her – the taste – old blood, and death from under the earth..._

She choked on her cracker, hastily swallowed water, and took a deep breath. “The journey down was pretty rough. And then I got a flat tyre in the supermarket car park...”

Slowly at first, then in a rush like a tumbling waterfall, she told him everything – the dark-haired stranger with the Bentley; Miss Instagram in the Yew Tree inn; the aching sorrow and the song in her dreams. She told him of Summerland, almost laughing at the memory of how the locals clammed up when her questions grew too keen, protecting their local milord, their very own Maxim de Winter. When she related her apocalyptic vision, Maglor tensed and took her hand, and he gasped sharply as she told him how the man, Van Apollyon, had lifted her from the waves and taken her back to his house.

“It's alright.” She squeezed his hand, stroking her thumb over the scars. “He didn't hurt me. He was...well, you'll see.”

She continued, blushing at the account of her own panic as she'd raced through the old house – but Maglor simply nodded, understanding. He tilted his head when she mentioned the paperweight, though he said nothing, and his brows creased as she told him the man's true name. _Vanimórë._

It fell from her tongue like a black diamond.

Maglor smiled as she described Nanny, and the old woman's loyalty to the man who had kept her housed and fed through the years – though his lovely countenance grew still when she told him what, and whom, Vanimórë sought.

_“A Silmaril of Fëanor...”_

And then fear's snaking fingers crept round her throat as she recounted her flight, the voice, the car – Kate Barrington, Miss Instagram, who at first had seemed an unlikely saviour – but she had an older name, that one, a name like the rustling leather of batwings and the cold, soft echo of an open tomb. _Thuringwethil._

Maglor snarled, fury and fear in his eyes. Again his fingers travelled to the cuts on her cheek.

“Claire, how long ago was this?”

His voice shook. She took his hand and closed her eyes, trying to think. Sleeping – or failing to sleep – in that Travelodge by Stanstead, time had lost all meaning. “Monday night.” It was now Thursday.

Maglor exhaled. His right hand, still clasping hers, tightened. “I'd thank Eru, if I thought he was listening. Or that he had anything to do with it.”

She frowned. “Why does the day matter?”

Shadows chased across his features. “Centuries ago, in England, I helped a band of men and women to fight back against a corrupt ruling class. Some of them became good friends, although they did not know the truth of me – except a few, at the very end. We were outlaws, living in a great forest...”

His words sketched an outline in Claire's mind, and she fitted it against the legends she'd known since childhood, made famous by books and films and songs. “Which forest?” she asked, torn between wonder and amusement.

Maglor's mouth curved. “You've guessed, I think.”

“Sherwood.”

“Yes.”

A sense of surreal, giddy joy washed over her. She wanted to shout with laughter. “ _You're_ Robin Hood?” Somehow this was infinitely harder to accept than him being Maglor Fëanorion. 

“Robin Hood was a common alias of cut-purses and roadside robbers for hundreds of years.” Mischief flickered in his smile. “But I contributed to some of the myths and tales.” 

She leaned back against the divan. “Wow.”

“I'll tell you the full story some time, but for now suffice it to say that yes, that is who I was, for a while – and I encountered Thuringwethil in Sherwood Forest. I sensed her presence and meant to deal with her alone, but one of my men – a boy, really, he wasn't yet sixteen – he followed me. His name was Kay.” His eyes grew distant, as they sometimes had in St Andrews when he had spoken – obliquely – about his family or his past. “Thuringwethil was weak, but still dangerous. She wounded Kay – a gash with her claws.” His voice was bitter and full of grief. “By the next night he was dead.”

That was not all, Claire could tell, but she didn't press him. She wasn't sure she was ready to hear, or that he was ready to tell her. “Then why...?”

“Why are you alive?” There was no merriment in his voice now. “I couldn't say. Perhaps she has to choose when to use her vile powers. Perhaps she did not cut you deeply enough.” But he sounded doubtful. 

Claire curled her fingers inwards, remembering the wound on Vanimórë's palm. He hadn't seemed concerned; perhaps it affected Elves – or whatever he was – differently.

Maglor shrugged. “It doesn't matter now. You're safe. But what happened?”

“I killed her.” The words were as clear as glass in her mouth. “With the paperweight. Vanimórë had her, I think, but...” She closed her eyes, thinking back, the darkness, the terror, the determination. “I don't know what made me do it, but I couldn't do nothing. I broke her skull.” She swallowed. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. The back of her throat prickled. “And it – I've read that it's like smashing a melon, but it wasn't. It was more like...like breaking a boiled egg.” Gelatinous scraps glistening in the moonlight; the seeing stone, slick with blood...her stomach heaved. She choked, and forced herself to swallow the hot, burning mess that rose from her gut. Maglor pushed a glass of water into her hands.

“Drink,” he said gently.

She obeyed, her teeth clinking against the glass. “God.” The word was ragged, half a sob. “I'm so sorry.”

“Claire, it's alright.” He put an arm around her, and she leaned into him, shivering. “More than alright. You were wonderful.”

“You weren't there.”

“No, but I know _you_. You could have chosen to do nothing; most people would have, and no blame to them. But that simply is not in you.”

She shook her head. “I was so stupid. I should have stayed where I was, instead of bolting out of the house like a frightened hare.”

“How were you to know that she was the true threat?”

“I don't know.” An embarrassed laugh bubbled out of her. “Shit. I can't believe I was nearly sick on your rug...”

“You wouldn't have been the first.”

She sipped her drink. “No?” This surprised her. She had always thought of Mark – Maglor – as a recluse.

He smiled again, as though he'd heard her thoughts. She thought of Vanimórë's prosaic confirmation that he could read her mind; no doubt Maglor could too. She blushed.

“I've had this house for decades,” he told her. “Sometimes I have to shut it up and leave for a while, and return when most of those who'd remember me are gone, but I've held onto it for far longer than anything else from these cold, late Ages. It has become a kind of home.” The word was forlorn, like a tolling bell. “I entertained Somerset Maugham in this room. Hemingway too. And I once had Daphne du Maurier over for tea.”

“Daphne du...” Claire gave a shaky laugh. “You're not helping.”

His smile curled teasingly. “Admit it – you're jealous.”

“Wildly. And another time you're going to tell me all about it.” She set down her cup, feeling steadier again. “But there's something else you need to know. What I used to kill Thuringwethil...it wasn't a paperweight.” The leather backpack was at her feet; she reached inside and retrieved the heavy, cloth-wrapped sphere. She thought it felt warmer than when she'd held it earlier – though perhaps that was her imagination. “Maglor, it's a _palantír._ ”


	4. Shadows of the Past

Maglor tensed. His skin had always been pale, but what little colour he had drained away. “No. It cannot be. They were lost.”

“It glowed for me.”

“At Summerland?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “When she was driving me. I didn't see anything, not properly, but it looked like...stars, moving through the cosmos.”

He reached out with his good hand, almost lifted a layer of cloth, and then drew away. “You were in shock.”

It was not dismissal, she knew, that made his voice so hard. It was fear. He didn't dare to believe it. “I was frightened, yes, but I know what I saw.”

“Claire -”

“Vanimórë found it in Uzbekistan after World War Two. _He_ knew what he was, and he was...like you. I think.” She frowned, remembering his words. _My name is not written in any book..._

“And you believe him?”

“Yes.” Claire curled her fingers into the cotton wrapping the _palantír._ “He knew who you were. He knew I knew you. And he said I had to find you.”

“Did he know where I was?” Maglor asked sharply.

“He didn't say so.” Although Claire had the feeling that he could easily have found out. “I had to work that part out.” Haltingly, she explained the strange moment of connection in the cove at Summerland.

Maglor frowned. “Has anything like this happened before?”

“No,” she replied thoughtfully. “Or not like that, exactly. I see things when you play.”

“I know.” His face softened. “I've felt it.”

She stored that away for later. “And Devon wasn't the first time I'd had those dreams. There was one – after Christmas, I think – and you were on trial, and I was defending you, and the judge...there was nothing under the robes and wig.” She shivered at the memory. “So cold. Worse than a ghost.”

“Námo,” said Maglor with certainty, looking away as though staring at something far and distant.

“Yes.” It rang true – another piece of the puzzle slotted home.

“The bastard.” Rage trembled under his voice. He took a breath and turned back to Claire. “I'm sorry. You were telling me of Vanimórë.”

“I truly don't think he meant you harm.” She bit her lip. “It was strange. He seemed to care for you, although obviously you don't know him.”

Maglor shook his head slowly. “Why did he want you to find me?”

She gave a small smile. “You had to ask the hard one.” She laid the stone to one side for now and folded both of her hands around his burned one. Her skin prickled at the touch of the scars, knowing now what had left them. “He says he needs you to find the Silmaril.”

Silence – and then Maglor barked a laugh, a harsh sound echoing through a chasm of pain, a dark ravine inside him cracking wide, wide open. “Does he, now? Does he imagine I have not tried?”

“He says it's different now; he told me he can feel it. He said...” She hesitated, knowing that Maglor had little reason to believe or trust Vanimórë. It had all made so much sense at Summerland, the way poetry could settle in your bones and you knew what it meant without thinking too hard. Here, in the bright light of the Venetian Lagoon, facing Maglor's doubt, she felt less certain. “If you call, it will come to you.”

Maglor lowered his eyes, a bitter quirk in his smile. “So easy?” He shook his head again. “What would he have me do – go to the Lido and sing for it?”

She squeezed his hand. “No, of course not.” Carefully, she lifted the _palantír,_ still in its gauzy wrapping. “But I think there's a reason he wanted me to keep this.”

Still he hesitated.

“Maglor...I know you can feel and sense things that other people can't see. _Listen_ for it. It is what I say it is, I promise.”

The beautiful features flickered between fear, disbelief and the barest flame of hope. He closed his eyes – and a moment later gave a gasp like a sob. He bent over, arms wrapped around his stomach, as though stabbed by a blade she couldn't see.

“I'm sorry.” She felt tears in her own throat, and lifted a hand to brush back his curtain of dark hair. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you -”

“Claire, how did you know?”

“There was no other explanation.” His hand sought hers; she gripped it, squeezing, anchoring him. “Nothing else made sense.”

He breathed in, the edges of it jagged and frayed, and lifted his head. “It may show me nothing.”

“You don't know that. Here.” She held it out to him. “Please.”

His eyes met hers. Shadows settled in them like ash drifting down through fire. “Very well.”

Together they unravelled the thin layers of cotton. Underneath, the globe gleamed in the Italian sun, winking deep navy blue.

“Oh, Gods...”

Maglor's melodic tenor shivered as Claire placed the _palantír_ into his hands.

_Take it. It is thine, Singer of the Song._

Her head snapped up. The voice sounded inside her, caressed her bones and soul. The air lifted, as it sometimes did when Maglor played, or when he fixed her with that strange, ancient gaze – and then a bird laughed out in the wetlands, and the spell was broken.

Carefully, Maglor turned the sphere in his hands.

“Nothing,” he said. “As I suspected.”

Claire exhaled. Disappointment sank through her stomach like pebbles settling in the depths of the lagoon.

Maglor held it out to her, the mask already back in place over the pain. “Here. It was you it answered to in Devon.”

But nothing stirred in the stone's inky depths. Somehow, she had known it wouldn't.

 _Could you not have worked for him, at least?_ she thought angrily as she enveloped it back in its cotton wrapper.

“It's alright.” Maglor laid a hand on her arm. The smile he gave her was sorrowful, but genuine. “It is not so simple to command the seeing stones. My father's creations often had...personalities. Wills of their own, almost.” A shadow whispered through the room. “The Silmarils...”

His voice shuddered. Claire took his hands and said what he could not. “I know. Vanimórë told me. The Silmarils each contain a piece of Fëanor's soul.”

“Yes.” That she knew – that Vanimórë knew – clearly startled him. The mask shivered; a longing as deep as the stars pooled in his eyes. “Though few ever knew that. The seven of us, our mother, Fingolfin – perhaps Fingon, too, and Finrod later. Everyone else swallowed the cant about it being the Light of the Trees trapped in there. I do not think even Finwë and Indis knew – though Indis was no fool. She may have guessed.”

Frozen fingers gripped Claire's heart. “And the...Dark Lords?”

“Melkor knew, somehow. I suppose he felt it; he ever desired my father, and the fire within him. He was content enough for Ungoliant to drain the Light of the Trees, or so the stories had it later, but the Silmarils he would not part with. And if he knew then I imagine so did his trusted lieutenant.”

Even in the afternoon heat, Claire shivered, and her next words stuck in her mouth like rock dust. “Maglor, he's back. She was going to take me to him.” Her stomach curled inwards as he formed the name. “Sauron.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then dropped his head into his hands. “ _Hells._ Oh, I'm a blind fool! I should have guessed. Thuringwethil at full strength again, Olórin back in the world -”

“You know about Olórin?” Claire interrupted.

“ _You_ know? How – of course.” He stopped himself. “Vanimórë.”

“He said that there were others too, but that you hide from each other.”

“Olórin and I are old friends. We do not tell each other everything, but we do not hide, exactly.” He lifted his head like a listening wolf. “He does not know about Sauron, not yet. I would wager my life on it. He would not keep something like this from me.” His gaze fell on the _palantír_. “We'd better put that away. Others may have survived, and they are all of them bound together.”

 _We do not know who else may be watching._ Claire swallowed the bizarre urge to ask him if he'd seen the _Lord of the Rings_ films, and the fit of giggles that accompanied the idea. Instead she picked up the cloth-wrapped stone and had it halfway to her bag before asking, “You don't want to keep it?”

Another shake of the beautiful head. “Hold on to it for now.” A wound in the lovely voice like a rip in the world's soul. “It spoke to you.” _And rejected me._

She closed her bag and put her arms around him. He stroked her hair and rested his cheek on top of her head for a moment, and then she felt him frown, and he held the back of one hand against her forehead. “You're far warmer than you ought to be.”

“I don't do well in the heat.”

He nodded, though his eyes were still thoughtful. “No doubt this is why your mysterious friend is suddenly so keen for me to go hunting Silmarils. He won't want them falling into Sauron's hands. That is, assuming Vanimórë is on our side.”

Claire decided that now was not the time to repeat Thuringwethil's remark about who Vanimórë used to serve. Instead she focused on Maglor's choice of words - “ _our_ side” - and his seeming acceptance that she was part of this now.

“Vanimórë.” He rolled the word around in his mouth, tasting it like an exotic wine. “'Beautiful darkness.’ I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

Claire shrugged. “He was...” She paused. ‘Nice’ was not the right word. “I trusted him. In the end.” She realised she hadn't told Maglor about the gifts – the packets of keys and documents and credit cards that Nanny had handed to her before she left Summerland – and drew them out of her bag to show him.

“What in the world...?” Maglor turned each one over in his hand as she passed it to him.

“I haven't even been through them all yet. There's envelopes within envelopes, a real paper chase – and besides, most of it's addressed to both of us, not just me.”

Maglor sliced open one of the packets – a thick brown envelope labelled 'Ishigaki Island', containing keys, title deeds, suggested travel routes and a booklet of information about the house and local area. “How many of these are there?” he asked wonderingly.

Claire sorted through the various packets until she found the printed sheet of addresses in a clear plastic wallet and handed it over. “Nanny gave me a list, in case I was followed and we needed to get to any of them quickly.” She already knew it by heart – California, Maine, Plettenberg Bay, Narbonne, Sydney, Galloway, County Clare, Ithaca, Florida, Morocco, on it went. Over two dozen properties, all of them coastal, all carefully positioned so that she and Maglor would never be more than a connecting flight away from their next bolt hole. She frowned at her mental choice of words. “Do you think we should be running?”

Maglor leaned back, considering. “Did Nanny say you should?”

“Neither of them said what I should do once I'd found you.” She felt foolish admitting it, like a child who needed instructions to solve a puzzle.

“Then I think we'll be safe enough here. Sauron cannot even be close to his full strength; he would have moved already. Though we should be cautious – he will have lackeys, as he ever did.” He frowned, as though troubled by a memory, and then he smiled at her. “Thuringwethil, of course, will be no threat to us for a while.”

She smiled back, and leaned against him as he drew her close, relaxing into the rise and fall of his breath.

“I wish I could have spared you that,” he said softly. “If I had known...” He paused. “How did she find you?”

“I'm not sure. St Andrews, maybe.” Claire thought of the times she had passed the ruined cathedral in the dark, the queasy sensation of being watched, her determined insistence that it was just imagination. She shuddered – and then another related thought intruded, and she sat up, stomach lurching. “Oh God. Rosie.” She had texted her friend from Stansted, reiterating that she was fine, entreating Rosie not to say anything to anyone yet, but she hadn't made contact since. “She'll be frantic – and I don't suppose I can even tell her where I am.” And she would need to tell Harrison something too, though he was camping in the Pyrenees with Theo, and wasn't likely to have regular phone signal. Her parents, as long as Rosie kept her mouth shut, could continue to think she was in Devon for the time being.

Maglor considered. “Text her, but be vague for now. Although make sure she knows it's really you – throw in a _Pirates_ reference, perhaps.”

Claire grinned at the memory of the show they'd all bonded over only a few months ago. It felt like lifetimes away.

“Then we can ring her from a public telephone tomorrow. Both of us, so she knows that you're with someone she can trust.” He frowned again. “Assuming she does?”

“Of course she does; this is Rosie!”

He shrugged. “I did lie to them for the better part of the academic year. And to you.”

“They don't know that. And you could hardly have told us the truth.”

After crafting a carefully worded text message to Rosie, she started packing away the documents. As she did, her fingers landed on the Lotto ticket, tucked diligently inside another clear plastic wallet. “There was this too.” She handed it to Maglor. “Nanny told me not to lose it.”

Maglor arched an eyebrow when he saw what it was. “Can your friend see into the future?”

“I guess we'll find out tomorrow.”

While they'd been talking, the light had softened from sharp aquamarine into a warm, tawny gold. Water lapped at the canal's edge outside, and a noisy old motor boat grumbled past. The worst of her headache had eased, though she continued to sip water to keep it at bay. She knew that Vanimórë had imparted a need for urgency, but once again she felt bone tired, the way she had sometimes felt in London – though without the sickening whine of adrenaline through her blood. She stared at one of the envelopes – wealth management paraphernalia, from the looks of what she could see through the clear film window on the back – and sighed. “I should go through these instead of just putting them away. I haven't any idea what's in half of them.”

“There's plenty of time for that.” Maglor kissed the top of her head and drew her gently against his chest. “And there's a lot to think about. Stocks and shares and bank accounts and credit cards can wait until morning.”

“Mm.” She leaned against him and stretched out her legs, quietly astonished by how natural this felt. _This is Maglor Fëanorion. He's a fictional character. He's an Elf, for crying out loud..._ And yet as his fingertips drew slow, lazy circles on her scalp, her eyes drifted shut. For the first time since Summerland, she felt utterly safe and at ease.

She wasn't sure how much time passed; perhaps she dozed a little. Eventually Maglor stroked one thumb across her cheek and asked her, “Could you eat?”

“I think so.” Her nausea from earlier had subsided, and a familiar growling ache awoke in her stomach at the thought of food.

“Pasta?”

“Sounds good.” She sat up and stretched, knowing that if she stayed on the divan, she'd be asleep before the sun went down. “Can I help?”

There was something grounding about cooking together, slicing garlic and breathing in the sweet scent as it fried gently in butter, listening to the chatter of the pasta pan as it came to the boil. Maglor's kitchen was beautiful, if simple – wooden worktops, metal stools around a central island, bottle-green pans hanging from a ceiling rack, and jars of pasta and herbs and spices lining every shelf. He handled a knife as gracefully as he played the harp, and the blood-red light of the dimming sun gleamed on the sharpened blade.

Across from the kitchen was a formal dining room, but they took their bowls of pasta upstairs instead, and sat on the balcony while the sun set. Maglor opened a bottle of red wine – incredibly expensive, Claire could tell, like heavy silk on the tongue, tasting of blueberries and dark chocolate and rich roasted spice. Maglor set up the record player so that the weaving, lustrous melodies of Sibelius's Fifth Symphony soared out through the open windows and over the island, the triumphant horn-call of the third movement mingling with the chittering cries of the wetland birds.

“Is it true that Sibelius wrote this when he saw a group of swans taking flight?” Claire asked.

“Supposedly.” Maglor smiled. “Though I never had the opportunity to ask him myself.”

Claire swirled her wine in her glass before taking a steadying sip. “You must have known some of the great composers, though. I bet you taught at least a few.”

“Some, yes – although plenty of Men are gifted and extraordinary without intervention from me. And I have to be careful.” He gazed out over the garden, watching the shadows play in the ruins of the church. “I cannot have history littered with mysterious, brilliant tutors matching my description.” There was no boastfulness in the remark – it was, after all, only a fact that he was brilliant, incomparable, untouchable. “The conspiracy theorists would start to suspect.”

Claire nodded, wondering at all the things he must have seen and done, all the while staying just out of sight – the figure never painted, the name never written down.

As though sensing her thoughts, Maglor smiled gently. “You must have so many questions.”

“I...” She shook her head, gave a self-conscious laugh. “I don't even know where to start.”

“I understand that.” The record had finished; he went inside for a moment and changed the disc. This time, the warm, sun-infused arias of Bizet's _The Pearl Fishers_ drifted out through the open doors. Maglor returned, and cupped her cheek for a moment before returning to his chair. “I will answer anything you ask me with honesty.”

“Thank you.” He meant it; she could feel that. But 'anything' was a dangerous word with Maglor, knowing his history. There was so much she wanted to ask him – but tonight was not the time. She swallowed her wine and got to her feet, staring at the blurred smudges of the island against the darkening sky. “This might seem a little obvious, but would you tell me about Tolkien?” The books, after all, had been her constant companions through her teenage years, and she had even carried them to London like a set of talismans, though they'd remained untouched in a pile on the floor of her bedsit. Now they were stacked neatly on a shelf in St Andrews. She wondered if she'd ever have the chance to retrieve them.

“I told him the stories.” Maglor sighed. “Once as a young boy, but I met him again in a hospital at Le Touquet, when I was wounded in the trenches.”

Claire blinked back the tears that started at the idea of Maglor injured in that stinking bloodbath almost one hundred years ago. _You know what he is. There will be horrors in his past that you can't even start to comprehend._

“I tried to make him forget, but clearly he could not.” Maglor chuckled fondly. “When I realised what he was doing, I made contact. He needed correcting on a point or two.”

Two rich male voices rose from the gramophone speakers, the familiar notes of the opera's best-known duet like the kiss of sun on the sea.

_“Au fond du temple saint  
Parée de fleurs et d'or  
Une femme apparaît!  
Je crois la voir encore!”_

Maglor got to his feet and came to stand next to her. “Like you, he accepted it at once as the truth.”

“I didn't have a lot of choice.”

“No.”

“Although...Vanimórë told me I knew already,” she said slowly, closing her eyes and leaning on the balcony rail. “Before everything. Back in St Andrews, even. I think he was right.” And in her mind she drifted back to the evening under the jade and lilac sky, the call of the owl, the dream that had led her into the sea. Fire beneath the waves, and the sound of the ocean's song...

_“Oui, c'est elle!  
C'est la déesse  
Qui descend parmi nous!  
Son voile se soulève  
Et la foule est à genoux!”_

Gently, like a curling breaker, the ground tilted under her feet, and she felt Maglor's arm around her waist. With his other hand he rescued the wine glass that threatened to tip from her grasp.

“Claire.” Warmth, mirth and concern mingled in his voice. “When did you last sleep?”

“Mm.” Reluctantly she blinked her eyes open. “Properly? Maybe three days ago.” Her brain felt stuffed with wool, and her heart sank at the thought of the busy ferry across the lagoon. “I should go back.”

He stroked her hair away from her face. “You're going nowhere. Take my bed; I'll sleep on the divan tonight, and we can arrange the guest room tomorrow.”

“What?” She drew back, laughing through her exhaustion. “You, on the divan? Don't be ridiculous. You'd nearly have to fold yourself in two. I can get the ferry back -”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

In the end they made Claire a bed on the divan. Even out here, away from the city, the night was not silent. Laughter curled on the evening breeze from a nearby _osteria_. Boats hummed softly up and down the canal. But it was soothing, peaceful, after the bustle of central Venice and the days of hot, muggy anticipation in the Travelodge at Stansted. The air whispered softly of rest, and hope.

Claire's sleep that night was utterly dreamless.

 

* * *

 

Maglor left her to fall asleep in peace, retreating to his own room downstairs – a haven of soft white sheets and wood-panelled walls.

_Olórin._

His friend responded almost instantly to the contact. Loving golden fire met adamant and steel. _Makalaurë. I hope all is well?_

 _...yes, up to a point._ Maglor shared the image of Claire leaning against him on the divan upstairs, exhausted, afraid, yet determined. _I have a visitor._

A long pause, and the mental equivalent of a sigh. _She knows, then._

_Yes._

_This...complicates matters._

_Not as much as the news she brought._ He relayed Claire's tale in images and flashes, and felt Olórin's fire smoulder like a burning coal.

 _Mairon..._ There was resignation in the ancient voice.

 _Do you feel him?_ Maglor asked urgently, ignoring the use of Sauron's old name for now.

_No. He is not at his full strength; both of us would know it, and he would have acted already._

_My thoughts precisely._

_What will you do now?_

Maglor paused. _Stay here, at least for a while. Claire needs rest, and peace._

_And you wish to spend time with her?_

There was a hint of mischief in his friend's mental voice. Maglor bridled. _And what if I do?_

 _Nothing._ A laugh, a gentle caress. _We all need friends, Makalaurë. But be on your guard. I will find out what I can._

The connection closed. Maglor wondered whether he should have mentioned the _palantír_ \- but no. That would have had the old man on a plane to Italy faster than the words “second breakfast” would summon a Hobbit.

Before retiring, he went upstairs once more to check on Claire. He smiled at the sight of her, curled up on the divan, the cotton throw halfway to the floor. He pulled it back up to cover her, then bent to kiss her forehead – mirroring, if he could have known it, the mysterious owner of Summerland who had sent her on this strange journey.

“I am so very sorry, Claire,” he murmured. “But I promise you this. Whatever danger I have brought down on your head, I will do everything in my power to protect you from it now.”

_Ah, my wandering beauty. You underestimate her._

He tensed, then straightened slowly, like a great cat listening for its prey.

_She is stronger than you yet realise – and you will need her strength, before this is done._

On the divan, Claire stirred in her sleep and moaned, and her fingers brushed against the scabs on her cheek.

 _Who are you?_ Maglor asked the midnight air.

A breath of sandalwood, a mocking laugh like a blown kiss, a maddening sense that he had heard the voice before, long ago – perhaps in the dream of a dream – and then nothing.


End file.
